


a scarecrow and a queen

by fairytiger



Category: Emma Approved
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 02:16:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairytiger/pseuds/fairytiger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the time Alex Knightley and Emma Woodhouse have made official what everyone suspected for almost as long as they have been best friends, they had already kissed more than once. Alex counted four as his favorites.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a scarecrow and a queen

**Author's Note:**

> collaboration between fairytiger and namelikeascripture

By the time Alex Knightley and Emma Woodhouse have made official what everyone suspected for almost as long as they have been best friends - really, almost as long as they’ve been alive, then - they had already kissed more than once. The most significant was undeniably the one that followed mutual admissions of feelings, but Alex counted four as his favorites. 

x

The first one is a dare.

He’s drawing treasure maps in the dirt with a stick, watching as the other kids play baseball. He scratches at the cast on his wrist and checks the time on his Batman watch, the one that came in the mail last week after he finally saved enough Fruit Loops box tops. Ten more minutes until recess is over, and two more weeks until he can take this stupid purple cast off (The doctor said he was out of every other color and Alex lost a little bit of faith in a fair and just God that day).

A cloud of dust settles across his map as he sees from the corner of his eye the march of bright white Skechers with tye-dye shoelaces. They stop right in front of him, and he comes face-to-face with Emma Woodhouse. The third grader who reads at his sixth grade level, who organizes and wins four-square tournaments, who’s going on her fourth straight year of perfect attendance. 

She studies his map, her dark eyebrows knit together in scrutiny.

“Are you drawing a treasure map?”

“Yeah,” he says, the first word he’s ever spoken to her.

“Where are the rocks?”

“Huh?”

“The _rocks_ ,” she says, pushing her bangs out of her eyes. “The rocks that the ship narrowly misses crashing into and sending her crew to a watery grave.”

“That’s awful. Why would I want that?”

“Because it’s no fun if it’s too easy. Where’s the challenge?” She takes the stick and draws sharp, jagged triangles just in front of the large “X”. 

“There, much better.”

Then she leans forward and kisses him. It’s quick and her lip balm tastes like Dr. Pepper. He keeps his eyes open, wide and confused, and when she pulls away, she smiles.

“I like your cast.”

She skips away to a group of girls giggling by the hopscotch court, her ponytail bouncing behind her.

After school, he asks her to sign it, and she takes up the length of the plaster with a long, cursive “E”.

x

The second one is a surprise.

It’s graduation day, at long last. Not for him – Alex has been in college for two years now, but when Ms. Woodhouse requests your presence at an event, you most certainly attend.

In high school, Alex had been an excellent student, but despite having two grade levels and nearly three years on her, he was always eclipsed by a spunky brunette. She had somehow managed to make top grades in every class, run the school yearbook, lead the debate club, and prove herself to be a star on the tennis court. Alex had thought getting good marks and holding down a part-time job had been plenty, but as always, Emma Woodhouse blazed past him and showed everyone how it was done. He was doing even better in college, but he suspected that once Emma showed up, she would outshine him once again. The strange thing was, he didn’t really mind.

Emma, delivering her class valedictorian speech, is mesmerizing – funny, poignant, thought-provoking. Glancing past his parents down the row, Alex can see that Mr. Woodhouse has tears in his eyes, and every student is riveted. She wraps up with her signature wink and the class gleefully tosses their caps in the air.

After the ceremony, Alex is with his parents and Mr. Woodhouse in the school lobby, chatting about the events of the day and Alex’s college experience, enjoying the refreshments that the graduation committee – lead by Emma Woodhouse – had carefully ordered and arranged that morning. Mr. Woodhouse is deeply interested in Alex’s studies, and very supportive; Alex has always loved having him as a neighbor – he has never been anything less than wonderful to the Knightleys. 

Mr. Woodhouse turns to Alex’s parents and is leaning in to give Mrs. Knightley a hug when Alex catches a familiar sound, the excited click-click-click of Emma’s pumps on the linoleum behind him. He spins to greet her, but before he knows what’s happening she has her perfectly manicured hands around his neck; she’s leaving a trace of soft pink lipstick on his left cheek. Her sweet, spicy perfume fills his head and his cheek is burning where her lips were – in fact, his whole neck and face feels flushed.

“Alex!” she squeals while he vainly tries to recover, all too aware of the hand still clutching his arm. “You came! Can you believe I’m finally a graduate?” She laughs, her eyes sparkling, and turns to hug his parents.

Mr. Woodhouse looks at Alex, who stands paralyzed and dazed as Emma zips on to the next family, ever the consummate hostess even at a school function. He laughs and slaps the younger man’s back; for a moment he is afraid that Emma’s father can tell what Alex is thinking, but Mr. Woodhouse only says “she’s never going to slow down, is she?” before heading to the coffee station. Normally Alex can’t believe how oblivious Emma’s father can be, but today, as he touches his left cheek, he is grateful for it.

x

The third one, they’re drunk.

At least, Alex is drunk. Not that his fraternity needed an excuse throw a party but Halloween is as good a one as any. There’s a fog machine and strobe lights and about two hundred more people than there should be crowded into the off campus house. He stands in the corner, away from the dance party happening in the living room, trying really hard not to bob his head to the irritatingly catchy Miley Cyrus song. 

He’s on his third Solo cup of whatever-the-hell-is-in-the-punch-bowl when he sees her, looking like something straight out of a Renaissance painting.

“Excuse me ma’am,” he says, tapping her on the shoulder. “Can I see some ID?”

She spins around, her brocade skirt twirling over his shoes. 

“I was invited.”

“Well thank you for taking time off from defeating the Spanish Armada to join us.”

“Thank you! Someone gets it!” she says, adjusting her gold crown. “Do people actually study history at USC or…”

“Whoa whoa, careful with that Bruin talk. I think I saw the Hulk somewhere around here.”

“That’s why you’re here to protect me.” She circles her arm around his and leans close, beaming. He can’t help but laugh. Every other girl here is dressed as a slutty ghost, a slutty pumpkin, a slutty … maybe a mouse? Some kind of slutty rodent? And here’s Emma Woodhouse, dressed in full 16th century court dress with a red wig and an ornate golden crown.

“Yes, if anyone tries to hurt you, I’ll throw straw at them.” 

She laughs, taking a piece of hay from under his hat and sticking it behind her ear.

“How do I look, Mr. Scarecrow?” she asks, and normally when she asks this question, she asks it like she knows the answer, but tonight, for once, she actually sounds almost vulnerable, like she wants to hear his answer. Maybe it’s just the punch talking, but it completely charms him.

“Emma. You look --” what one word could possibly describe her? “You look beautiful. You’re stunning.” Usually he tries to avoid complimenting her, in part because she gets plenty of them, and in part to prevent her from hearing the tremor in his voice that usually crops up when he does. Tonight, at least he can chalk it up to the liquor.

And before she can say anything, or retort with a smart-ass comment to hide the fact that she’s clearly pleased with his answer, he kisses her. It’s tentative at first, but then he slips an arm around her waist, drawing her closer, and she responds by gently putting one hand on his cheek and the other around his neck. 

It’s only when he pauses to catch his breath that he fully realizes what’s happening, that in a dim, hazy corner of his frat house, he’s kissing his best friend. To anyone else it looks like a scarecrow and the Queen of England, tangled up in a typical, drunken Halloween party hook-up. But he sees the reality in her eyes when she pulls away, her fingers momentarily brushing over her lips.

They stare at each other for a moment, and for once neither of them knows what to say. Of course it’s Emma who breaks the spell by laughing - a little more high-pitched than usual - and mumbling something about beer, and too much of it, more than she realized. 

The next day, and many days after, they laugh about it. Remember that one time, they say, and blame the punch and her corset that was too tight. He can’t tell for sure whether she remembers the exact details, the undercurrent of tension he’s sure they both felt, but he does, as much as he might try and forget.

x

The twentieth one is on purpose. 

From work, they take his car to the new Thai place around the corner that just opened. He’s all gentleman; pulling out chairs and opening doors. She laughs at him, because this is exactly who he is and always has been, but never with her, not really. Not in this way, when reservations have been made and flowers were waiting on her desk this morning with a note that said “Looking forward to our new venture, partner”. 

There’s no small talk to be had; he knows where she grew up and where she went to school, what she majored in and what she wants to be. So they talk about work, and Harriet and Robert’s housewarming next week and of course she’s already taken care of the gift but can he pick up the card tomorrow? (That way it will be a joint effort.) Her dad has another cold, but is still up for movie night if they are, and it’s their turn to pick. It’s not, really, because there’s only a few movies he can sit through without falling asleep, but they all play into the charade that they get to have a say. She’s in her zone, debating yellow versus green for a neutral color palette on Annie’s baby shower invitations when he leans across the table, takes her face in his hands, and kisses her. He knocks over the centerpiece in the process, but he doesn’t care. Because he can kiss her whenever he wants to now, and plans to lose count.


End file.
